Afterimage

by Naomi Hughes

  I match my breathing to his. In. Out. Slow and deep.

  Something is digging into my thigh through my pocket. It’s the bracelet. The one Mom stole, the one I nearly got arrested over almost four years ago. And because I’m staring at Quint’s hand I remember her hand: the way she added a flourish when she tossed the bracelet in the cup holder, the way she tugged at her ear when she grinned afterward.

  I frown, the panic fading enough for me to think clearly. Her ear. The ear that should’ve held an expensive, brand-new pearl earring, her anniversary gift from Dad, but was somehow bare. I reach back further in my memory—but no, she’d definitely had them on when she’d come into the manager’s office.

  The answer comes with the moonlight, shifting subtly from behind a cloud, painting the street in silver. She’d taken the earrings off. She’d left them in the manager’s office, in exchange for the bracelet I’d wanted so badly.

  She hadn’t stolen anything.

  The world slowly rights itself. The vice around my chest loosens. I’m still shaking, but it’s not as violent now, because at least I have this. It’s too little, too late, but at least my mother was who I always thought she was.

  Quint sits all the way down, legs stretched out at my side, and takes off his glasses. He doesn’t clean them though, only folds in the earpieces one by one and then clasps his hands around them, uncharacteristically still. We both stare at the vacant house in front of us. Its windows have been broken, either from the explosion or from the looters who came through after. The remaining shards glitter in the starlight like a monster’s teeth.

  Quint breaks the silence first. “Do you trust me?” he asks. The question is an echo across a chasm; he’s asked it once before, but time and knowledge have warped it into something wholly different.

  I inhale a jagged breath. “No,” I answer, because I shouldn’t, not with everything I know now, but he hears the lie anyway and one corner of his mouth tilts up humorlessly.

  “Good,” he says. “Because I have a very bad idea, and I’d really like you to ignore it.”

  I swallow. “I’m actually pretty open to suggestions at this point.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” he says lightly, but one hand disappears from his lap—he’s rubbing his face, probably.

  My shaking slows a little more. Quint has a plan. A very bad plan, which he’ll need me to enact for him. It’s almost like old times.

  “Shoot,” I tell him, and my voice is even now.

  “He said there was another way. His old equipment … in our timeline.”

  I lift my head but stop myself from looking at him at the last second. “Life-or-death,” I remember.

  His hand drops back to his lap and he blows out a breath. “Yes,” he answers. “Life-or-death.”

  We both stare straight ahead. According to Matthew, my timeline switching abilities can be triggered by life-or-death scenarios. Failure would mean I wind up in a body bag, but success … success could mean finding another way to save everyone, a way where no one else has to die.

  It also means using up a little bit more of Quint’s soul.

  I shouldn’t say anything. I should let him offer this, let him do this, let him take the risks for once. Instead, I say: “Why?”

  I glance at him. He’s still staring at his glasses, hair falling over his eyes. “For you,” he says quietly.

  Something breathless and a little bit fragile opens behind my chest. “Why?” I ask again, because I think I know what he means but I need to be sure.

  His fingers curl around the frames so lightly. “Remember when I said I used to hate you?”

  Mutely, I nod.

  “I lied,” he says, and climbs to his feet.

  The breathless, fragile thing in my chest flips over, but I beat it back because I will not feel things like that about people who are dead and, one way or another, doomed. “And you’re very good at it,” I call after him instead, because I can hear the truths and untruths behind his words now as much as he can hear mine. And what he just said was the truth—but not all of it. He’s still afraid, and he’s still holding something back.

  When I reach his side he’s staring at the base. Beyond the warning signs, a flashlight beam is sweeping over the shipyard as the agent patrols for more intruders. The McKay gleams silent and unobtrusive in the starlight, nothing more than another empty ship.

  Quint’s mouth twists. “I used to be better, apparently,” he says.

  “Matthew? He didn’t lie. He …”

  “Manipulated,” Quint finishes.

  “Unsuccessfully,” I emphasize.

  He’s still staring at the base. He sighs, closes his eyes. “Thank you. For running, when I know how much it must’ve cost you.”

  Suddenly I get the urge to step between him and the fence. I hate the way Quint looks right now—lost, scared, broken—and I hate Matthew for putting that look on his face. I want to protect him, which is ridiculous, because I can’t even protect me. I curl my hands into fists and swallow the urge down, but I’m only partly successful. “Well,” I answer finally, breathing past the lump in my throat. “It turns out I don’t hate you either.”

  He opens his eyes. He glances at me. That lost look slips away, just a little, and something between us eases. That fragile feeling in my chest eases too. It should be terrifying, that connection—that vulnerability, that influence his feelings have on mine against all logic—but it’s strangely comforting instead, and that frightens me even more. What will I do when this boy inevitably ends?

  I shove the thought away, turn, and start walking toward the coastline. After a moment Quint follows, each of us keeping company with our own thoughts.

  The sidewalk peters out, turns to a thin gravel path that slopes upward toward the cliffs that guard the coast. We pass a few smokers and one or two midnight hikers, but it looks like this area was mostly abandoned after the blast.

  “So what is this terrible plan you need me to carry out?” I ask at last.

  “Switch timelines. Like I said.”

  “That’s a goal, not a plan.”

  “You’ll have to be the one to fill in the specifics.”

  “And here I thought you were supposed to be the genius.”

  He sends me a sideways glance. “We’ll need a scenario that will make you panic as much as possible, because it sounds like overwhelming fear of imminent death and probably strong physical stressors are the key to kick-starting the shift. If we pick a situation that isn’t big or deadly enough you could just wind up severely injured and have to use more of my energy to heal yourself, and then risk not having enough left over for a round-trip through timelines afterward. This has to be all or nothing. So you tell me: what type of death are you most afraid of?”

  The question curdles in my stomach. I’ve been collecting a small mountain of new fears for months, and the prospect of facing down any one of them—even though I logically know they’re all harmless—is petrifying enough. But he’s not talking about triggering a panic attack, not talking about anxiety. He’s talking about risking something well and truly deadly. And if I have so much trouble facing things that I know can’t hurt me, how the hell am I supposed to be able to do something that really could kill me?

  He slides his glasses back on. “I did tell you this was a bad idea. You sure you want to go through with it?”

  “Yes,” I say, and the word settles heavy in my bones.

  I make a left turn. The gravel fades into a footpath, an old hiker’s trail. It tilts up into a steeper grade. We climb.

  “You should know,” Quint comments when we’re halfway to the top, “that even if the ‘other way’ works, it still might not fix everything.”

  I give him a look.

  He shrugs. “This is exactly the type of scenario the grandfather paradox is supposed to explain. There’s nothing to say that stopping the explosion won’t simply create another alternate reality and make the universe implode faster.”

 
; “Or,” I reply, “it could snap the paradox loop shut because then Matthew wouldn’t have had any reason to ever create any of the timelines in the first place, and everything will work out the way it should.”

  He gives me a look but doesn’t reply. Instead, he says, “I’m assuming you’ve chosen your life-or-death scenario by now.”

  I keep my answer short because I’m already panting from the steep hike, and also because if I think about what I’m about to do for too long there’s a strong chance I’ll change my mind. “I’m going to jump off a cliff,” I tell him.

  He arches an eyebrow. “You want to jump off a cliff in this timeline so you can continue falling to your death in your own timeline? Maybe we should make that plan B.”

  I hunch down and walk faster. “I’m going to jump over the ocean. Competitive cliff divers can jump from about sixty feet up and be fine, but that won’t stop me from feeling like I’m about to die on the way down.”

  “Okay, but you’re not a competitive cliff diver. Sixty feet is way too high for a beginner.”

  “I have to make it feel convincing, remember? Don’t worry, I picked up some tips from Kyle.” Not many, but it’ll have to be enough.

  “Right,” Quint says. He doesn’t quite sound convinced.

  My fingernails dig into my palms. “There is one problem. I haven’t quite figured out how to make sure we end up in the right timeline, since apparently Matthew has made more than one.”

  He mulls it over for a minute. “It sounds like using the energy is mostly automatic, instinctive—but maybe that’s only a failsafe. Maybe you could figure out how to direct it consciously, with practice.”

  My lips flatten out. He talks about the energy and practice so easily, as if we weren’t planning how to rip apart pieces of his soul. “We don’t have time for practice,” I say tightly.

  He nods but says nothing. We keep walking.

  The wind picks up the closer we get to the top, pushing me back, tugging at my still-matted hair. I hunker down and keep going—the best jumping-off points will probably be on the far side of the lookout, past the highest cliffs. Rocks skitter and roll beneath my shoes and I struggle to keep my footing. I crest the top of the trail, breathing hard—and jerk to a sudden stop.

  I can see everything from up here. The sprawling city twinkles against the horizon, with the base a wide smear of gray right below. A broken down railing juts out over empty space a few yards to my left. To my right is a scraggly pine tree and a splintered picnic table … and a lone figure sitting on its bench, feet propped up on the seat of a dented motorcycle, hands behind his head like he doesn’t have a care in the world and eyes so sharp I could cut myself.

  We regard each other for a long moment. “Well, you look like crap,” Kyle says at last.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I WRAP MY ARMS AROUND myself. I want to hug him, and I want to punch him, and I want to run—but I can’t do any of those things, because I have to save him, and that means I have to jump off a cliff.

  “How did you find me?” I ask, stalling for time. I have to get him out of here. For the moment, this Kyle is the only Kyle I have left, and I can’t make him watch me fall to my potential death.

  His leather jacket rustles as he shifts in his seat, ignoring my question. “Dad hasn’t been answering his phone today,” he says instead, and the words are hard as granite. “And I’m glad. Because as soon as he does, I’m going to have to figure out how to tell him about you.”

  Not my dad, whispers my brain, but my heart lurches anyway. “How is he? Is he … okay?”

  “He hasn’t been okay for nearly a month now.”

  We watch each other. I glance at the cliff behind me and swallow. It’s way too high, more than twice as tall as I wanted. If I’m forced to jump from here, I don’t know if I’d survive, healing abilities or no. But do I have a choice?

  “Kyle. I’m so sorry.” The words slip out before I can stop them. He’ll hear them as an apology for not telling him I survived the explosion, but what I really mean is: I’m sorry for killing you. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough. I’m sorry I was too late.

  It won’t happen again.

  Kyle drops his hands and leans forward, shadows dappling his form. He’s wearing the same clothes as last night but now they’re worn and wrinkled. His hair is even messier than usual, standing up in dark brown tufts, and he’s got bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days. He sighs and rubs his face. “I have been fired,” he says, and now the granite is gone and he just sounds exhausted. “I have been interrogated. I have been threatened with a court martial and a prison sentence, and my bosses only let me go because so far they haven’t been able to find any proof that you—and by extension, me—are in fact aiding a terrorist. I suspect that’ll change soon enough, though.”

  He pulls out a phone and tosses it to the table. A map glows on the screen, two tiny red dots blinking against the coastline. “Did you know my phone has a tracking feature?” he asks. “If it’s ever stolen, this app can tell me exactly where it is even if the battery’s dead. And a few hours ago—after I was released from the interrogation—I got an odd call from the phone company. Two signals, they said. Identical. They thought it was a data error.”

  My heart sinks and my hand goes to my pocket. To the phone that my Kyle gave me, the one I used to light our way in the tunnel, the one that saved my life. The one that’s an exact duplicate of this Kyle’s phone.

  “But I thought it was suspicious, especially with everything else that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours,” he goes on, “so I followed the other signal. And do you know what I found?”

  I stare down at the base, a wide swath of ash right below us. I can see everything from up here, I’d thought earlier. And so could he. The fields that I’d searched, the warehouse where I’d slept, the ship where I’d met—willingly, secretly, for the second time in as many days—with a known terrorist.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. The edge of the cliff is three yards away. If I run, he won’t be able to catch me. He won’t be able to stop me, he won’t be able to turn me in. “Please, just leave,” I try one last time.

  The bench creaks as Kyle stands. “How long have you known he was here, Cam? How long have you been working with him?”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Then tell me what to think,” he says raggedly. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do now. Tell me how to get you out of this.”

  That look in his eyes, is that how I looked when I thought Mom was guilty? When I wanted her back anyway?

  I take a long step backward. A blast of wind whistles up the side of the cliff, twisting at my shirt. “I have to get myself out,” I tell him, and take another step. “I have to get us all out.”

  “Two more feet,” Quint says quietly from somewhere to my left.

  I open my eyes. If Kyle has to watch, so will I.

  The cliff at my back is a steep drop-off, and it ends in a churning mass of waves and washed up debris from the base. This used to be one of my brother’s favorite diving spots a few years back. There wasn’t debris in the waves then, and as far as I remember from Dad’s picnic at this spot last week, there isn’t any in my timeline either—but if I’m wrong, or if I fail, or if the currents changed while I was gone, jumping in the ocean here will be as good as jumping in a blender.

  It doesn’t matter. Kyle won’t leave here without me, and whether he turns me in to the agency or only to Dad, I won’t get another shot at this.

  “Mom hated you coming here,” I tell Kyle, my eyes on the drop-off. “When you were seventeen, remember? You used to dive every weekend.”

  His gaze goes from me to the edge. “If you’re thinking about taking it up yourself, you should probably pick a cliff that doesn’t have chunks of buildings floating under it,” he says slowly.

  “But every time she lectured you about how dangerous it was, you only got more reckless. So one day she followed you.” I take another step
toward the edge. Six inches to go. “Middle of the night. Massive waves. The riptide was so strong, but you wouldn’t stay home.”

  His eyes go tight and he takes a step forward. “Camryn,” he says, in that too-casual voice that means he’s starting to understand what I intend to do, “let’s get out of here. We can reminisce later, okay?”

  “She told me to stay in the car, but I snuck up after her, because I was so scared that you’d do something stupid. It turns out you weren’t the one I should’ve been worried about.” He edges closer, one hand held out like I’m a wild animal he’s trying not to spook, and now the wariness in his eyes is churning into full-blown fear. “Come here,” he says, no longer trying to sound casual.

  “She tried to stop you right before you dove, and you yelled at her. Said that she couldn’t understand, that she wouldn’t even try. She gave you a hug and said you were the one who didn’t understand, because you’d never had to watch someone you love risk their life. Then she turned around, slid off her shoes, and took a running jump off the edge. It only took a few seconds for her to surface, but you didn’t stop shaking for hours. That was the night you quit diving.” I glance over my shoulder, into the roiling shadows a hundred feet below. “She’s the one who taught me how far you go for family.”

  I breathe in. I meet Quint’s eyes because I can’t meet my brother’s. And then I jump.

  Kyle throws himself at me a second too late. He grabs for my arm, but gravity’s already got a hold on me and I slip through his fingers, launching off the edge and over empty space. He shouts my name and reaches for me again and he sees the second he’s about to overbalance—and he keeps reaching anyway.

  Rocks crumble off the edge beneath him as he teeters. For half a second and an eternity, our gazes lock: this is how far he goes for family, too.

  And then he’s falling.

  I scream something, but the words blur together and all I can hear is the way his voice cracked when he shouted my name and the sound his shoe made when it scraped against the edge of the cliff and the horrible screech of metal on charred metal far below. I stretch out my arm. The wind is howling and my stomach is pressing up against my ribcage and terror is pounding sheer and pure in my veins, but I will not let him hit that debris. I will not be the end of him. Not this time.